


it could be love

by dwoht



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies), The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: And also angst, But mostly fluff, F/F, bly manor canon divergent, but like angsty fluff, flluff, pp au, the crossover i never knew i wanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwoht/pseuds/dwoht
Summary: Jamie eyes the pink tint in her cheeks with amusement, but spares Beca the horror of bringing attention to it, and just asks, “What’s she like?”For all the time she’s spent thinking about her, Beca is surprisingly speechless. She struggles through a bunch of adjectives that just don’t do Chloe justice, and then recalling the way Jamie had described Dani, she sighs. “Like sunshine.”OR,Beca learns to love again, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell, Dani Clayton/Jamie
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	it could be love

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to theresa's anon who came up with the idea of this crossover ;o

At six, Beca has become quite adept at understanding words such as “orphan” and “foster system” and “no living relatives.”

“Orphan” meant her parents had died, specifically in a car accident. The memories are hazy, because she _was_ only five, but she can remember sitting outside her kindergarten classroom, like always, and waiting for her parents to come pick her up.

The plan was, since she started preschool, for her to sit in the designated spot, and her mom or dad would come find her, and then they’d walk to the car together. This was especially important because under no circumstances as Beca allowed to walk through the parking lot alone.

So, there she sat. Her oversized blue backpack was settled snugly on her shoulders, she waved goodbye to all her friends, and then occupied herself with counting the sparkles in the cement while she waited.

After about twenty minutes, she shrugged off her backpack, giving her shoulders a rest, and leaned it up next to her along the wall. After about thirty, she got bored with looking at the ground, and started wondering whether she was allowed to go play on the playground.

However, she remembered another rule, which was never to play alone in case she fell and got hurt.

She never really considered herself a particularly obedient child, but those were two rules her parents were really strict about, so Beca dutifully tucked her knees up and waited. And waited. And waited.

She waited until every child left, with parents eyeing her on their way out, but not saying anything. She waited until the sun started to dip behind the tree line, and it got cold enough for her to fish her new jacket out of her backpack. She waited until her stomach hurt because she was so hungry, and waited until she had drunk her entire water bottle.

She waited so long that her teacher opened the door to go home for the afternoon, backpack slung across her own shoulders.

Beca waived.

The teacher tried to recover as quickly as she could, and taking a deep breath said, “Beca, you surprised me. What are you still doing here?” Beca shrugged. “Your mom and dad come pick you up, right?” Beca nodded. The teacher swallowed, opening the door again, and held out her hand. “Okay, why don’t you come in?”

It only took a few phone calls, though Beca wasn’t really sure how much time had passed because she was occupied with doodling in the margins of her homework and eating Goldfish, but eventually they got to the bottom of it.

“Okay, thank you,” her teacher had said, murmuring into her cell phone. “I’ll get CPS sent over, and we’ll go from there.”

“CPS” was another term Beca would become quite familiar with, and though she could never remember what the letters actually stood for, she figured out pretty quickly that they meant she had to go somewhere else. It was never a good thing.

A nice lady with a badge and a sticker knelt down next to her at her desk, and said something about there being an accident, and that her parents couldn’t come pick her up, but that she would go stay with another family until it was all figured out. And then she held out her hand.

Beca remembered also being told never to go with a stranger, but after deciding her teacher was the person she should listen to in the situation, she looked to her for direction.  Her teacher had an expression on her face that Beca has never been able to figure out, but she just nodded, trying for a smile. So, Beca took the nice lady’s hand, and they walked out together.

The first time she heard the term “orphan,” it was her first night at that new family’s home. She was snuggled into blankets on a mattress in the floor, wondering how she was ever expected to fall asleep when a voice piped up from the bed across the room.

“Beca?” the voice whispered.

“Yeah,” she said.

“What happened to your parents?”

The truth was, Beca didn’t really know, but she said what she did, which was, “They’re gone.”

“Oh. You’re an _orphan_.”

“Huh?”

“We take in kids like you a lot. Or, my parents do. But they usually have families waiting for them, and we just take care of them in the meantime. But you don’t have _anybody._ ”

And that became the important part of the whole thing. “Orphan” meant she didn’t have anybody waiting for her. There was no well-meaning mother who just took too many wrong turns, and had to give up custody for a few months. There was no loving father going through rehab so he could take her home. Her parents were just gone.

Not long after that, “no living relatives” became a staple in the conversation, as there was nobody who could claim custody of Beca. She was owned by the state, and that was that.

The “foster system” turned out to be what Beca’s new normal was, and it really just meant she travelled from family to family, until… _something_ happened, and she had to leave. Sometimes, there were bruises on the other kids in the home. Sometimes, there were white powders or lots of money that they weren’t supposed to have. 

Sometimes, they just didn’t want her anymore.

On her sixth birthday, not that anyone knows about it, she’s taken from the home she’s been at the for the past couple of months. She’s not really told why, but from the way she’s ushered out the door at three in the morning while her foster dad gets put in the back of a police car, Beca figures it’s not a good thing.

She spends a few days at a group home, specifically designed for housing kids while they’re in between families. She fights over food and showers and sleeping time, and on the fifth day of drifting in and out of sleep while trying to stay awake to protect her only belongings left in the world, her social worker comes back.

“I found you a new home,” she says. Her name is Elizabeth. Her gaze flickers up to look at Beca in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

Elizabeth’s gaze is as reassuring as it always is, but she also says “I have a good feeling” about _every_ home, and so far she’s had approximately zero percent accuracy. Beca just shrugs. “Okay.”

For all the spite and misery she can harbor in her six-year-old body, Beca has to admit that she does sense something is different when they pull up in front of the house.

For one thing, it’s a little bit further out of the city, meaning it’s an actual house with land surrounding it. She can already tell it’s going to be different than those old apartments with the leaky roofs, or the condos stuffed into a complex with sixty others.

The house seems to be well-maintained, though Beca remains cautious as she slides out of the backseat and pulls her trash bag of belongings with her. Elizabeth opens the front gate for her, which is a bright white, all fresh and clean.

The path under her feet is made of brick, not dirt mixed with cigarette butts and broken glass, and there’s a practical mountain of plants and flowers on each side. There doesn’t seem to be any actual design element to it, but the flowers themselves are clean and tidy, the dirt is vibrant, and it’s clear a lot of time goes into the final product.

So, okay, it _does_ feel a little bit better.

Elizabeth’s fist barely touches the front door when it swings open. The woman standing in the doorway is young, but there’s a tiredness to her that, somehow, Beca can tell she relates to.

“Hiya,” the woman says. She tucks a stray curl back behind her ear, and then slides her hands into the side pockets of her jean overalls. “You must be Elizabeth.”

“That’s me!” Elizabeth says in that voice she does. “And this is Beca.”

Beca is trying to peer into the house without looking nosy, but it’s unnecessary when the woman says, “Well, do come in.”

They follow her inside, and the interior matches the front yard in the most perfect of ways. It’s maintained, clean, and tidy, but at the same time it has a sense of being lived in. Beca refuses to let herself entertain the idea for more than a second, but it’s the closest she’s ever felt to walking into her home with her parents.

“Cuppa tea?” the woman asks, rocking back and forth slightly on her heels. She motions for them to sit at the couch, and they do.

As the woman disappears into the kitchen, Elizabeth looks down at Beca with a bright smile, as if to say, _See? I told you._

Beca ignores her, and also pretty much zones out after that. She catches that the woman’s name is Jamie, but she’s been through enough of these drop-offs, and they’re all equally as boring. She just sits there, chewing on a cookie, and wonders, with a kind of hopefulness she’s never felt before, how long she’ll get to stay.

Elizabeth leaves soon after — there’s never much fanfare when she switches homes, something Beca is equally grateful and miffed about —, and then it’s just the two of them.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and Beca gets the feeling that Jamie is just as nervous and unsure as she is. Interestingly, that makes her feel a bit better. She watches as Jamie’s gaze travels to the trash bag that holds her belongings, and her face falls a bit.

“Let’s have a tour?” Jamie offers, as if Beca has a choice.

“Okay,” Beca says, scooping up her bag.

“You can leave that there,” Jamie says, and Beca tries to figure out if that’s a suggestion or a command, because she really doesn’t want to. Jamie must note her hesitation because she says, “Nobody is going to take it.” Beca doesn’t let it go. “Alright, then, let’s go to your room first.”

Dutifully, she follows her down the hall, and notes that she’s never had her own room before. Not since her parents, at least.

The hallway is lined with some artwork and a dried flower pressed into a glass frame, and it just adds to the overall feeling that this home is a place of memories, most of them probably good. Its peace buzzes in the air, and it relaxes her some.

The bedroom itself is fairly barren, with a white wooden bed frame, and a chair and a desk to match. There’s a curtain hanging on the window, but besides that, it’s completely empty, and a far different feeling than the rest of the furnished house.

Jamie shows her where she can leave her bag, and then they’re staring at each other again, with Jamie looking down like she’s a puzzle to solve. She nibbles at her lower lip for a second, and then blurts out, “It’s empty, this room. I took out all the decorations because I want you to decorate it how you want.”

Beca must look highly confused, because when she says, “Okay,” Jamie doesn’t look like she believes her in the slightest.

“We can paint the walls, get you a carpet, posters,” Jamie says, looking around. “If you want different blankets and stuff, we can do that too. I want this room to feel like _yours_.”

“Okay.”

Jamie sighs, and her shoulders lift and fall in such a way that makes it feel as though she’s having as rough of a time of it as Beca. That notion is somehow hard to believe, while also seeming highly possible at the same time. “I intend for you to stay a long time, Beca.”

Nobody’s ever said _that_ before. “How long?” she asks, trying not to squirm under Jamie’s gaze.

“As long as you’d like,” Jamie says. She looks around again, and then briefly up at the ceiling, and then back down to Beca. “Would that be alright?”

Beca nods.

Jamie shows her the rest of the house, which consists of one more bedroom, the master, a bathroom for Beca, the kitchen, and the living room. She tells her she’ll get to see the yard and the rest of the property later.

All throughout the house, Beca gets the strange sensation that Jamie doesn’t live alone. There’s a second toothbrush in the holder when Jamie shows her her own bathroom that attaches to the master, there are two chairs at the kitchen table, two mugs draining in the dish rack.

Eventually, as they’re settling down in the kitchen for dinner, Beca asks, “Does someone else live here?”

Jamie stills, her hand faltering as she brings the knife back down on the onion. “No,” she says, recovering swiftly. And that’s it.

Despite Jamie’s less than talkative nature, Beca finds that with every question she pipes out, she becomes more comfortable asking the next one. She perches herself on a chair at the table, and watches Jamie cook.

“Why’s your voice funny?” she asks.

“It’s called an accent. I’m English,” Jamie says, cracking a smile. “England is another country.”

“Hm,” Beca tuts, highly unimpressed. “Why do you have so many flowers?”

“In the front?” Jamie asks, turning away from the stove slightly. Beca nods. She resumes stirring the sauce in the pot. “Well, I like them. I think they’re nice.”

“Me too,” Beca decides, and her heart warms pleasantly when she sees Jamie brighten at that. “Can we really paint the room?”

“Of course,” Jamie says, fixing two plates. “Any color you want.”

“I haven’t had my own room in a long time,” Beca observes, and when a plate of steaming pasta is slid in front of her, she realizes she hasn’t really had a meal cooked like this in a while either.

There’s a knowing frown, and a funny sort of melancholy in Jamie’s tone when she says, “I know.”

The dinner itself is a quiet one, because Jamie doesn’t seem like the most talkative of people and Beca is six, but it might be one of the most peaceful ones Beca has had in her entire life. While Jamie might not say much in the way of conversation, Beca sees the way she _does_ things for her to make up for it.

It’s little gestures like turning her fork in towards her, or sprinkling some cheese on top of her plate after doing her own, or refilling her water cup before they start eating, or asking her if she needs help getting the pasta on the fork.

While Jamie does not read her a bedtime story, she _does_ tuck her in and give her a kiss on the forehead. Beca almost flinches when she leans in, and wonders when it became that she forgot what it was like to be kissed goodnight by somebody.

“I’ll be right down the hall, remember?” Jamie says, hovering in the doorway. “If you need anything, just give a holler, or come find me. Okay?”

Beca nods, chin scratching at the sheet that’s pulled all the way up her shoulders. “Okay.”

There’s a slight frown on Jamie’s lips, as if she knows Beca definitely won’t do that, and she says, “Really, any time, even if it’s in the middle of the night.”

“Okay,” Beca repeats, but this time she allows a little more acceptance into her tone, and Jamie seems satisfied with that.

The last thought Beca has as she drifts off to sleep is the striking realization that this house feels like a home. _I intend for you to stay a long time, Beca_ , Jamie had said. And then she’d asked, _Would that be alright?_ , and Beca thinks that it might be.

**__**

The remnants of breakfast linger, and Jamie takes one last bite of her French toast before pushing the plate away. She watches Beca eat for a few seconds, and then clears her throat, and slides a shoebox in front of her.

“Beca,” Jamie says, voice wavering slightly. “You’ve been here a week now, and I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Beca says, spooning another blueberry into her mouth.

“You asked me if another person lives here,” Jamie says, her gaze fixed on the box, “and there was. There used to be.”

“Who?” Beca asks.

“Her name was Dani,” Jamie says, lifting the cover of the box, though Beca is too short to see into it. “She was my wife. And we always wanted to have kids together, or at least one kid.”

"What was she like?" Beca wonders.

Jamie smiles. "Like sunshine."

“And what happened?” Beca probes.

Really, by now she should know better, and it shouldn’t even be surprising when Jamie says, “Gone.” Beca frowns. “Gone, like your parents.”

“Oh.”

It’s not the most pleasant conversation they’ve had so far, to say the least.

“Anyway,” Jamie rushes through, “we — ah, well, for all intents and purposes, Dani was sick. We knew she was never going to be here for a kid. But she wrote letters to one, to a potential future kid, and now they’re yours.”

The last bite of bacon is thick when it swallows down her throat, and Beca shakes her head. “But what if you don’t keep me?”

Jamie sighs, as if expecting that answer. “The only reason you would ever leave this house is if you choose to, okay? I want you here.”

_I want you here._

“Okay,” Beca says, and for the first time, she starts to believe that it really is.

“There are a bunch here,” Jamie says, shuffling through the envelopes. “There’s one for each birthday, and the rest are all labelled.” She flicks through a couple, reading off the top, “‘Open when you’re sad,’ ‘Open when you apply to college,’ ‘Open when you graduate high school,’ ‘Open when you fall in love.’” She seems to find the one she’s looking for, because she separates it from the rest. “And this, ‘Open when you get here.’” She plays with it a little nervously. “Do you want to read it?”

Beca nods, and reaches out for the envelope. Its thick and clumsy in her little fingers, but she manages to rip off the outside without damaging the letter itself too badly. She unfolds the paper to reveal paragraphs of neat, pretty lettering, and gets about as far as the first word before she looks up. “I’m six.”

“Ah,” Jamie says, nodding with a wince. “Righto. I should probably read it to you, then, eh?”

Beca hands it back. “Yeah.”

“Alright, here goes,” Jamie says. She clears her throat again, and blinks a couple times. “‘ _Dear Baby. I bet you’re a little confused right now. Maybe a little bit scared. Maybe you’re old enough to be reading this by yourself, alone, or maybe Jamie is telling you what it says. Regardless, I want you to know this: You’re okay._

“ _You’re okay, and you’re home now. Maybe you’ve been to a couple before, or maybe you’ve just come from the only one you’ve ever known. But this home was mine, and now it’s Jamie’s, and it will be yours._

“ _Everything you’re feeling is perfectly alright. Even if you don’t want to be here yet, or you miss your parents, or you’re happy to have come into this house, but you’re worried it won’t last. That’s all normal. And, luckily for you, you’re not alone. Jamie grew up a little like you, and she understands._

Beca looks up, a little surprised at that, but Jamie just keeps her eyes trained on the paper. She sucks in her bottom lip, and worries it between her teeth for a few seconds as she scans the rest of the letter.

“ _My name is Dani, and I wish I could have had the opprotunity to be your mother. I wish I could be there to say this in person, I wish I could be there to tuck you in at night, and I wish I could be there for all the things that have yet to come. But as Jamie might have told you, I’m not here anymore. You’ll get that story when you’re older._

“ _These letters are for you, for the rest of your life. I hope they help you. I hope they allow you to feel close to me sometimes. I love you so much already, and I hope you learn to love us, too._

“ _Love, Dani_ ,” Jamie finishes. She blinks a few more times, and then folds the paper up, slipping it back into the shoebox. She smiles, slightly. “These are yours now. You can open them whenever you want, and I’ll always be here to read them for you.”

“You grew up like me?” Beca asks, echoing what she heard in the letter. “Orphan?”

This seems to pose for a difficult question, because Jamie deliberates on something for a few seconds. “Not quite,” she says eventually. “I had a rough childhood, though. And it took me a while to find my own home. And I’m going to do everything I can so you don’t feel that way.”

True to her word, Jamie never lets Beca down. It’s impossible for Beca to stop comparing this house to previous ones, but at every point where she thinks _now_ is the moment where Jamie’s true self will come out, or days when she thinks she’s going to be sent away, Jamie is still there, consistent as ever, and so is Beca.

They paint her walls blue, and her ceiling black, and Jamie uses a ladder to stick glow-up stars onto the ceiling so at night, it looks like she’s falling asleep under the sky. They find a rainbow carpet for the floor, and a set of sheets with trees on them, and Beca only has to look at a painting of a guitar for Jamie to ask if she wants it for her room.

Slowly, she accumulates a nice set of clothes that actually fill her closet, and Beca doesn’t want to wear those three shirts she brought with her that first day ever again. One day, Jamie even surprises her with a set of her own overalls, in case she wants to come help out in the garden.

Beca starts at a new school, now in first grade, and she even makes a friend. Her name is Emily, and she talks way too much, but she helps Beca with her math, and they trade apple slices for carrots at lunch. She doesn’t ask Beca about her parents, and doesn’t even talk about her own that much, and Beca likes that very much.

The letters sit under her bed, because it has suddenly struck her that those are the only letters. Ever. She might as well ration them, and she can’t read them yet anyhow.

In the makings of a new nighttime routine, Jamie helps her with her bath, gets her dressed for bed, and then reads that first letter out loud to to her every night before tucking her in.  Before long, Beca has memorized the words enough to pretend to read it herself, but she likes when the words come from Jamie. She decides figures knows Dani best, and would read the letter how it was meant to be spoken. 

A few months in, Beca asks to accompany Jamie out to the garden.

This request is met with absolute delight, and Jamie leads her out front explaining, “Today is actually a fun one. We’ve got some new flowers that need planting.”

It is then realized that Beca doesn’t really like dirt, and likes worms and bugs even less, but she has fun sitting and watching anyway.

“See here?” Jamie says, lifting up a little flower that clings to a clump of dirt. “See how those little lines are all throughout the dirt? Those are the roots, and when they get too long, you have to plant them in the real ground.”

“Pretty,” is all Beca says.

“It is,” Jamie agrees, nestling the roots in the little hole she’s already dug. “This is Dani’s favorite color, you know.”

“Pink,” Beca says, eyeing the delicate little petals.

With a nod, Jamie finishes the first one, and lifts out the second flower, an identical kind, but in a different color. “And this is yours, right?”

“Blue,” Beca says, nodding. “We painted my room blue.”

“We did,” she says, carefully lifting it out of the little plastic pot. “I figured it must be the color you like the most” It’s quiet as she plants that second one not too far from the first, and then lifts out a final plant. “And this is _my_ favorite.”

“I like them,” Beca says, reaching out to touch slightly. The petals are soft, and she’s impressed to find the dirt is as well, but she retracts her finger before she accidentally touches a worm or something.

Along the walkway, in a neat little row, are freshly planted flowers of pink, blue, and then a deep red. The soil is fresher and more upturned where they sit, and the sun has Jamie is flushed a little pink as she brushes the loose dirt off the brick work.

“They’re kind of like us, eh?” Jamie says, gathering up the tools and pulling Beca to her feet. She slings an arm around her, gazing down at her handiwork. “One for you, one for me, and one for Dani. Give ‘em a bit a water and love, ’n they’ll grow quick as they can.”

“Will they get big?” Beca asks. She looks around, narrowing her eyes, and then gestures towards the apple tree.

“Not as big as that,” Jamie says, “but the petals will grow, and the stem will get taller.”

“ _I’ll_ get taller,” Beca observes, and she grins as Jamie sighs dramatically.

“That you will,” she agrees, “but don’t be growing taller than me, hear?”

“No promises,” Beca says.

Jamie looks down at her with a matching grin, but her smile wavers slightly. “You look a lot like —“ she cuts herself off. “Never mind.”

That happens a lot. The frequency rises after that day, but maybe it’s just because Beca starts looking for it.

It’s never anything overt, or made to be a big deal, but there’s little comments here and there. The things she does, the phrases she says, the foods she enjoys, the questions she asked. It’s like Jamie is constantly comparing her back to someone else, not unlike the way Beca does the same to Jamie with her old foster homes.

One day, Jamie even lets a name slip when she says, “Flora’s favorite fruit was strawberry too.”

It’s apparent immediately that Beca has no idea who Flora is, but the moment passes as quickly as it comes. Beca just shrugs and says, “Well, it’s the best” and then, “I have school tomorrow.”

“Righto,” Jamie says, clearing their plates. “Go start, and I’ll be in to wash your hair, okay?”

It feels totally normal to go skipping down to her bedroom, and then over to the dresser she picked out at Goodwill. She rifles through the hefty amount of pajamas she’s acquired, and goes straight down the hall into Jamie’s bathroom.

It feels normal to switch on the shower, and then flip the switch so the tub starts filling instead, and Beca knows by now that the hot and cold labels on the faucets are switched. She knows exactly which soap and wash cloth is hers, and which is Jamie’s, and she’s splashing around trying to write in the bubbles when Jamie comes in.

“Well done,” Jamie says, kneeling down and pumping some shampoo into her hand. Beca starts leaning back before she even says it, but she continues anyway, “Shampoo time.”

As she almost always does, Jamie seems to get lost in watching the the water in the bathtub, as if she’s searching for something in it. She never says what, and never acknowledges that she does it. Wordlessly, Beca automatically reaches out and hands her the cup they use to rinse her hair to pull her out of her thoughts.

It’s only when Beca is huddled under the blankets and curled up to go to sleep does she realize she’s been here longer than any other home, except for the one with her parents.

She’s never been anywhere long enough to have a special cup used just to rinse her hair out. She’s never been anywhere long enough to pick out furniture or amass more than one pair of pajamas. She’s never been anywhere long enough to know the house like the back of her hand, and to have an evening routine. Most importantly, Beca realizes she’s never been anywhere long enough where it would absolutely destroy her to have to leave.

A panic starts to rise in her throat, because she doesn’t want to be sent away, and she doesn’t want to go live with another family, but as soon as the fear bubbles up in her chest, she deep breathes through it, carried by the memory of Jamie’s voice soothing her with Dani’s words.

_You’re okay. You’re okay, and you’re home now._

Two weeks later, Beca turns seven.

Her first grade class sings her happy birthday in the morning, and after school, Emily comes over to her house. They play outside while Jamie cooks Beca’s favorite for dinner, having already made a cake while she was at school, and she decides to save her letter for the next year, when she’ll be able to read it.

It’s a good day.

A year later, the same thing happens, only this time Beca is eight, and is considerably more literate.

After Emily goes home, Jamie leaves her alone in her room with a kiss on the forehead and the promise that she’s just down the hall.

Beca rests on the edge of her mattress, and scoots the shoebox out from under her bed. She rifles through the envelopes, all different colors, until she locates the stack clipped together of birthday ones, and pulls out the ones labelled “Seven” and “Eight.”

_Dear Baby,_

_I hope you had a good day today. Jamie never really knew what to do for kid birthdays because  
she didn’t have many growing up, but we used to take care of some kids called Flora and Miles, and when  
it was their birthday, we would cook their favorite meal and bake a cake._

_I don’t really know how old you’re going to be, but Jamie and I always wanted to give a home  
and a family to an older kid, so I decided to start writing letters on your  
seventh birthday. I hope that’s alright._

_When I turned seven, my parents took me to the beach, and we had a picnic with  
my best friend at the time. We don’t have any beaches where we live now, but maybe one day  
Jamie will take you. Don’t tell her I told you, unless she’s reading this to you, but she gets kind  
of weird about water, so don’t pressure her too much._

_I’m going to keep this one short and sweet, but I want to tell you again that you are so loved._

_Happy birthday!!_

_Love, Dani_

So _that’s_ who Flora is. Beca tries to remind herself to ask Jamie later, but loses the thought in her haste to opens the next one. Her fingers already much more coordinated than they were when she opened her first letter when she was six, and she’s careful not to tear any of it. She unfolds the paper, this time a light blue, and starts reading.

_Dear Baby,_

_You’re eight!! You don’t know this, but I used to teach elementary school kids in school,  
and eight was always my favorite age. By now, I bet you’re reading this all by yourself, so I’ll make sure  
not to use too many long words, and you probably are so much bigger already._

_You’ll be in second or third grade now, though I’m sure you don’t want to talk about school.  
I think by now you might also be responsible enough to have a pet. I don’t know if you like dogs or  
cats or anything, but I know Jamie likes taking care of things, so you should ask her._

_If not a pet, maybe an extra-curricular? That’s like an activity that you get to choose,  
and you do it for fun. It can be sports, like soccer or running, or it can be something musical, like learning to play piano  
or guitar. I want you to have the freedom to explore what you like, and to do things that make you happy._

_Jamie doesn’t know this yet, but my birthday present to you this year is giving you permission  
to try any activity you want, and Jamie has to say yes._

_Make it a good one, and try not to choose anything that’ll make her go prematurely gray._

_Love, Dani_

Beca falls asleep clutching both letters to her chest, and when she wakes, they’re folded on her nightstand and she’s tucked into bed. The curtains have also been opened, probably to wake her up, and she rolls over with a squint to avoid the harsh attack of the early morning light.

Beca doesn’t think she’s been blessed with being a morning person, but the smell of pancakes and bacon hauls her out of bed.

She wanders into the kitchen and sits herself at her spot at the table, and before she can chicken out, she says, “Hey, Jamie? What happened to Flora?”

Jamie’s fingers hesitate over the pancake she’s about to flip. “Hm?”

“In the letter,” Beca explains, “from last year. Dani mentioned you took care of some kids named Miles and Flora.”

“Right,” Jamie says, swallowing thickly. “That’s where Dani and I met. She was a nanny, and I was a groundskeeper for this big house in England. And there were two kids that lived there named Miles and Flora.”

“Why did you stop working there?” Beca asks.

“They didn’t need us anymore,” Jamie says with a shrug. She puts a plate of food right under Beca’s nose, and seems satisfied when her questions are halted for a second as she takes her first big bite.

“Well, what happened to _them_?” Beca asks, halfway through her forkful of pancake.

“Swallow first, please,” Jamie says, laying the bacon out on a paper towel. “What happened to them? Well, they’re gone.”

“Gone,” Beca says flatly, because so far the only time they’ve ever used that term for a person was when they were _really_ saying the person was dead, and Jesus Christ, how many dead people can there be in one family?

With a start, Jamie seems to realize this at the same time, because she spins around, eyes wide. “Not like that. I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I — “ she takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. “They’re alive and well. But I don’t see them anymore. It’s complicated.”

“Maybe when I’m older,” Beca says, echoing Dani’s words from sometime ago, and Jamie brightens at having been given an extremely convenient out of the conversation. After a sip of water, Beca adds, “By the way, Dani said I can do an extra-curricular.”

“Oh?” Jamie says, no surprise in her tone at all. “And what have you picked?”

“I think I’d like to learn to play guitar,” Beca decides.

**—**

Beca starts lessons down at the music store, and Emily tries to convince her to try-out for her club soccer team. She absolutely does _not_ do that, but their elementary school _does_ offer a singing group, so they join that together, even if Beca has to wake up at five in the morning on Thursdays for it.

Jamie doesn’t even complain that she also has to wake up at five in the morning to drive her there, and just says that Flora always liked to put on plays and skits, and probably would have liked to join a choir as well.

“Were, uh, were either of your parents very musical?” Jamie asks. She seems hesitant to say anything; she always is when she brings up Beca’s parents.

“Not really,” Beca says, trying to recall. She frowns upon realizing her memories have been growing fainter every day, but she says, “My dad was a college teacher. For something boring. History, I think. My mom was a stay-at-home mom. She might have played piano. I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Jamie says, shoveling another spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Beca’s plate, as if sensing her uneasiness. “I only ask because you’re really good at it. I mean, you’ve only been playing a year, and you’re on to some pretty advanced stuff.”

“Really?” Beca asks, scooping up some potato on her fork.

“Yep. I talked to your teacher, and he said you’re a natural,” Jamie says.

“Can you do music when you’re an adult?” Beca asks. “Like, a career?”

Jamie struggles with this for a second, but eventually she decides to say, “Yes, you can. There’s loads of different careers in music. But you don’t have to figure that out right now.”

“In ten years I’ll be at college,” Beca says, suddenly doing the math in her head. “I’ll go somewhere else for that, right?” She shrugs. “Emily said her older sister just got into a school six hours away.”

“Some people go far away,” Jamie says in tentative agreement, eyeing her warily.

With great horror, Beca realizes her lower lip is trembling, and her eyes are suddenly getting all shiny and glassy, and her fury at this only makes her tear up more. “I don’t want to start over again,” she says, sniffling through it.

“Beca,” Jamie says with a sigh, “I have told you, and I’ll tell you as many times as I have to for you to believe me.” Beca feels her left hand sandwiched between Jamie’s, and her eyes are wide and earnest when she looks up. “You never have to leave here until you choose to. And even if you do, you can always come back.”

“Okay,” Beca whispers, and she wonders why some days it’s so hard for her to believe it.

That evening, when Jamie comes in to say goodnight after Beca has finished her shower and gotten into bed, her kiss lingers a little longer on her forehead, and instead of throwing them out in passing on her way out, she murmurs the words into the kiss.

“I love you,” Jamie says quietly. She pulls back, lifting the covers all the way up, and folding them down the way Beca likes. “I love you.”

“Jamie.” Beca swallows, her throat feeling thick and sore when she inhales sharply, but she manages to get out, “I love you, too.”

Jamie practically stops breathing at that, and it suddenly occurs to Beca that it’s the first time she’s ever said it back. She remembers sometime after the first few months, Jamie had told her she knew she wouldn’t say it back right away, and that it was okay, and then something about attachment issues, and finally, made it clear that she should take as long as she needs to really mean it.

And Beca _does_ mean it. God, she means it with every fiber of her being.

She loves the way Jamie never breaks a promise. She loves the way she tucks her into bed at night. She loves the way they sit in the garden together, and loves the way Jamie pretends like she’s interested in listening to Beca ramble about music theory.

She loves their mornings together on the weekend, when they cook breakfast together and eat it lazily over conversation, and loves their hurried weekdays where Jamie packs her lunch as she makes them both a simply toast. She loves laughing over movies together, and sitting in a comfortable silence as they read.

She loves the way Jamie has seemingly endless patience when she can’t seem to figure out a simple math problem, and loves the way Jamie always tells her she’s done well, even if it takes her an hour to actually solve it. She loves her room, which feels like hers, and she loves the house, which feels like _theirs_.

By the time this realization has hit her, Jamie has left and returned with an envelope. She’s breathless, eyes alight, and after practically flinging it onto the bed, she says, “I’ll give you some privacy,” and immediately turns to leave. Beca has just lifted the envelope when she pokes her head back into the room. “Just down the hall, remember.”

The envelope is a letter, obviously from Dani, and on the front it says, _For when she says, ‘I love you’ back._

_Dear Baby,_

_We love you. SO much. I don’t know how long it’s been since you came home.  
Could be a day, could be a year, could be ten years. I hope it’s less than that, at least.  
I hope you really mean it. I hope you know how much we mean it too._

_I want you to know, also, that you loving us doesn’t mean you don’t love your brith parents.  
You can love two sets of parents at the same time, and you can still wish you had them in your life.  
I want your love for us, for Jamie, to be a source of peace and happiness. I don’t want it to worry you._

_Our love is unconditional, always. It is never something that will be used against you, taken away,  
or held as ransom. Our love is the minimum, and it will never go away, no matter what._

_Without getting all teacher-y on you, I’ve known enough kids with childhoods similar to yours  
to know that it can be scary to tell someone you love them, especially when you’ve had people in your life  
taken away from you before. But we aren’t going anywhere._

_So, one last time, we love you. Heck, for all I know it’ll be twenty years before we even  
get to meet you, and we still already love you more than anything!_

_With extra love, Dani_

_P.S. Did Jamie cry? I bet she cried._

**—**

Is it a bit odd for Beca to grow up with a ghost mother who only speak to her in written form? A little. Is it a little hard to explain that she sort of has two siblings, but she’s never met them, they’re not related, and Jamie only refers to or talks about them as if they’ve already died? Yeah.

But all in all, Beca is happy. She feels loved. She feels supported. She feels like this is the life her parents would have wanted for her. She doesn’t know what she did to deserve it, but hell if she’s going to waste it.

She starts paying attention in English class more, and when they get to a unit about poetry, while literally every other student groans and mimes shooting themselves in the heads, Beca listens with rapt attention as her teacher goes over rhyming schemes and imagery.

A week later, she writes her first song.

All things considered, it’s pretty bad. Beca knows this. But it’s fun, and she’s only thirteen, and she can practice, and maybe this could be a career for her.

Two weeks later, she gives the lyrics to Emily to look at, and not a day after, Emily returns the paper with a hesitant smile, and tweaks to the word choice or cadence flow.

So, yeah, maybe it compares Jamie to a flashlight, but it has two verses and a chorus, and Beca is pretty proud of herself. She just wishes Dani were there to hear it.

**—**

_Dear Baby,_

_High school!! The big one!!_

_It’s sort of strange for me to think that by now, you’re probably close to your full height.  
_ _I know Jamie always said she would be mad if our kid outgrew her. Not that it would be hard, right? I hope  
you’re six feet tall because I think that would be funny._

Beca looks down at herself, barely pushing five feet, and sighs.

_Anyway, I’m getting off track. I know it might be scary going into high school and knowing that it’s  
the last set of school years before college, but I want you to remember to enjoy it. Enjoy learning, enjoy making friends,  
enjoy this all, because you only get to do it once._

_It’s getting harder and harder to be writing these letters now that I know you’ll so much older,  
and I have no idea what you’ll be like. Although, secretly, I hope you like music. I was never much of an athlete,  
and I always thought it would be nice to know how to play piano or guitar or something._

_I would give you some teacherly advice here, but you know I only taught elementary schoolers.  
Honestly, teens and high school is a bit out of my element. I have faith you’re going to do just fine, though._

_Have a great first day, and tell Jamie all about it when you get home. She won’t ask, but I know she’ll be dying to talk about it._

_Love, Dani_

**—**

“Emily got asked to Homecoming,” Beca says, and her attempt to disguise her disgust is half-hearted at best.

There’s a gentle clink as Jamie sets her cup down. “Oh? That’s a dance, right?” Beca gives her a look. Jamie holds her hands up. “Hey, I’m English, remember?”

“Yes, it’s a dance,” Beca says sourly. Neither of them say anything, and Jamie seems to know exactly when to let her sort through her own thoughts, and when to ask more questions. This time, it’s the former, and after another dramatic sigh, Beca bursts out, “It’s just, we promised each other we weren’t going to go.”

“Well, why not?” Jamie asks, scooping up a forkful of salad.

“It’s a _dance_ ,” Beca says, as if that should be answer enough. It’s not, if the look on Jamie’s face is any indication, and she elaborates, “Lots of sweaty people all crammed into one room? No, thank you.”

“You sound like me,” Jamie muses. She chews thoughtfully. “Maybe Emily likes the person who asked her to the dance. It would be hard to pass that up.”

“I guess,” Beca mumbles.

“You know, when Flora would have been about dating age, I couldn’t believe it,” Jamie chuckles, “and now look at you, all grown up too.”

“I’m fourteen,” Beca says, stabbing at her plate. “I’m hardly grown up.”

“Fair enough,” Jamie says, shrugging.

She’s just moving to clear their dishes when Beca says, “Hey, Jamie? Do you believe in ghosts?”

It’s a simple enough question, or so Beca thought, but as she eyes Jamie practically turning into one herself, she’s wondering if maybe it was a bad choice. She watches, silently, as Jamie finishes gathering up their food, and takes it to the sink.

The sound of running water coats the room, and when the sink has filled enough, she shuts the tap off. For a second, Jamie just stands there and looks into the water, not unlike the way she used to do when bathing Beca all those years ago.

Eventually, she looks up, and says, “I do.” Then, hesitantly, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Beca says, but she shrugs in a way that makes it clear she does. “I mean, I just think it would be nice to think about. We were talking about haunted houses at lunch today, and I don’t understand why ghosts have to be mean. Maybe some of them are nice, you know?”

The little smile Jamie gives her is tentative, but she says, “Yeah, I think so, too.” She abandons the dishes and returns to the table, and when she sits down, she’s looking straight into Beca’s eyes. “I also think ghosts aren’t always how they seem.”

“You’ve lost me,” Beca says, furrowing her eyebrows.

“I just mean, sometimes a ghost isn’t just a see-through, white, person,” Jamie says, and she looks around as if she’ll see one. “Like in the movies, and that. It’s not always like that.”

It’s an odd answer, and one that could only really mean one thing. “Do you — do you see ghosts?” Beca asks, trying to push down the embarrassment of asking such a question.

“I think so,” Jamie admits thoughtfully. “I mean, I see their effects. Like, if I forget to turn off the stove, but then when I rush in to do it, it’s already been done. Or locking the door behind me when I forget. Or fixing a flower if it gets blown over in a storm. These things just happen sometimes, and I wonder if it’s a ghost.”

“You mean like Dani?” Beca asks.

“Maybe,” Jamie says, and there’s a hint of hope laced throughout the word.

“That would be nice,” Beca says quietly, and the smile toying on Jamie’s lips grows into a full grin.

**—**

_Dear Baby,_

_Happy birthday!! Fifteen! Just one year away from getting your driver’s license. Please be careful  
when you start learning, or Jamie might prematurely have a heart attack, and we don’t want that._

_Gosh, it’s exciting to think of you getting older. You know, when I was fifteen, I got my first job.  
It was just babysitting for the kids down the street, but it was really nice for me. I learned a lot about independence,  
managing money. Maybe something for you to think about this year, if you have time._

_You’re a good kid. I know you are. You’d have to be with Jamie there to whip you into shape.  
And I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished so far, even if it doesn’t seem like a lot to you._

_It’s hard for me to think about you doing all these things without me there to guide, help, and observe.  
Learning to drive, applying to colleges, taking the SAT, getting your first job. I wonder how I’d do it all.  
I like to think I’d be the calm and composed one, but I think we both know that’s Jamie._

_Speaking of, we used to talk about this thing comparing love and possession. How if you try to hold  
onto something too tight, the love just becomes toxic. The best way to love someone is to let them do their own thing.  
So if Jamie ever seems like she doesn’t care, or doesn’t want to hold you close, believe me when I say she does,  
she just knows she can’t. She knows she has to let you be your own person._

_All this to say, your growing independence, and seeing you develop into who you  
are is exciting for her, and it’s also scary. So be nice to her, okay?_

_Happy fifteenth!_

_Love, Dani_

**—**

There’s a rushing in her ears so loud it drowns out the gentle crackle of the radio.

She can’t hear Jamie flipping the pages of her book, nor the scratch of her pencil that Beca knows she’s using to underline paragraphs she likes. She can’t hear the constant chirp of crickets through the open window, she can’t even hear her own breathing.

She tries to swallow through her nerves, but her voice still sounds like she’s underwater when she stammers out, “Hey — um, Mom?” Jamie’s eyes snap up. Beca pushes through the deafening thud of her heartbeat to ask, “Would you adopt me?” And then, “I mean, I want that. Will you?”

And when Jamie says, “I would love to,” as casually and easily as she would relay the weather forecast for the day, the world quiets back into the comfortable hum Beca has grown to think of as home.

**—**

A month before she turns sixteen, Beca gets a job at the music store in town.

She’s been a fairly consistent customer, always there to get some new sheet music, or just to browse their collection of CD’s and records for sale. On this particular day, she’s examining the different options for a new package of guitar picks when she can’t help but overhear a conversation behind her.

“I don’t want you to lose interest, and have us waste all this money,” a mom is saying to her son. “If we get a cheap one from somewhere else, you can try it out without any big commitment.”

“But cheap ones don’t work as well,” the kid is arguing. He can’t be more than twelve.

The two of them go back and forth for a bit, and eventually Beca can’t stop herself from spinning around. “Excuse me?”

They turn. “Yes?” the mom says.

Beca squirms under her gaze, and doesn’t think she’s ever purposefully talked to a stranger before, but here she is. “I started playing guitar when I was eight," she starts. "I’m fifteen now, and I haven’t stopped loving it any less. And do you know why that is?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but the woman shakes her head.

“Partly because I just really do enjoy it,” Beca says, shrugging, “but I think a large factor of it is that my mom believed that I could do it. And she supported me at every turn. And she bought me a nice guitar, and unnecessarily colorful picks, and sheet music for me to practice on.” She sighs, looking around, and adds, “I know I’m lucky to have a mom who can do that. And if you just can’t afford it, there’s nothing wrong with that. But a good attitude is free. What message do you think you’re sending to your son if you believe he’s going to lose interest before he’s even started?”

All in all, it’s a speech that feels strangely optimistic, and not something Beca ever thought would come out of her. She wonders if this is the kind of thing Dani would have said, if she were in this position.

“We _can_ afford it, I just —“ the mom seems to be struggling for what to finish with.

Beca walks over to the display of demo guitars, and points to the one on the end. “That’s a pretty basic six string, but the construction is nice, and the sound is good, and the quality is there. If you get one that’s a little too big now, it can be used for a while.”

The boy is looked at her like she’s God himself, and then his begging eyes transfer up to his mom. “I promise I’ll practice really hard,” he says, and when the woman sighs, deflating more at herself than anything, Beca knows she’s going to say yes.

There’s a satisfied smile lingering on Beca’s lips as she watches their retreating forms. She’s returning her attention to her own shopping, and has just reached out for a set of wooden picks, when a voice comes up from behind her.

“Would you want to work here?”

Beca spins around, suddenly eye to eye with one of the younger employees. “Huh?” she says, eloquently as ever.

“Would you want to work here?” he repeats, a smile coaxing her response.

“Like, as a job?” she asks.

He laughs, shifting his weight, and sticking his hand into one of his front pockets. “Yeah, like a job. You’re good with the customers, you know about music, and you’re somewhat of a regular.” She doesn’t say anything. He thrusts a hand out. “I’m Jesse.”

She shakes his hand tenderly, and then says, “I’d have to ask my mom.”

“That’s okay,” he says, stepping back slightly. “Just let me know. I’m here every day except Sundays and Tuesdays.”

“Okay,” she says dumbly. And then, “I’m Beca.”

“We’d love to have you, Beca,” he says, and then with a wave, turns and heads back to the front.

Beca is barely one foot in the front door when she calls out, “Hey, mom?”

“In the kitchen!” comes the responding call.

Head poking in, Beca grins and says, “So, can I work at the music store?”

Jamie looks up from her craft project, trying and failing not to look surprised. “You wanna apply there?”

“No,” Beca says, depositing herself into the chair across. “I already got the job.” She frowns. “Kind of. Well, that’s unclear. One of the employees heard me talking to another customer, and he offered me a position.”

“I think it could be fun,” Jamie says, brushing one last coat of finish on the wooden picture frame. “You like music, the location is biking distance from home —“

“— And I’ll have my license soon,” Beca says, drumming her fingers on the tabletop.

“That’s true,” Jamie agrees, and carefully sets down her work in its entirety to look Beca in the eyes. “I think it’s a good idea, so long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties at home or at school.”

“It won’t,” Beca promises.

Jamie smiles, resuming arranging the dried petals on the glass frame. “You know, Flora —“

And why today of all days Beca just can’t take it, she’s not sure, but with a bitterness she didn’t even know she had in her, she snaps, “I’m not Flora.”

The silence is thick and stifling, and Jamie is actually lost for words for a few seconds. “I never — I —“

“I’m not Flora, and I’m not Miles, and I’m not Dani,” Beca huffs, rising to her feet without even realizing it. “I’m Beca, okay? I’m sorry if that’s not enough.”

She’s barely two steps out of the kitchen when she already knows she majorly overreacted, and she should probably just go back in and apologize, but another part of her just feels angry. With a clench of her jaw, she lets that side win, and stalks all the way to her room.

The door slams, and it cuts through the silence like a gunshot.

The fact that her eyes are watering is absolutely infuriating, which of course makes her tear up even more. Beca has never hated the fact that she’s an angry crier more than right now, but with a rough swipe with the back of her hand, she brushes away the few tears that have spilled over, and reaches under the bed.

Her fingers tremble as she tears open the letter that says, _For when you don’t feel wanted_ , and when she starts to read, she hates that she’s never heard her speak, and can’t even imagine Dani reading it; the only voice that comes to mind is Jamie.

_Dear Baby,_

_I’m sorry you’ve opened this letter. If you have, I can probably assume you’re feeling  
pretty crappy right now. And I don’t know in what order these letters are being opened, but if  
I haven’t said it recently, remember: our love is unconditional._

_Now, I don’t know what situation prompted you to read this, but I’m going to go out  
on a limb _ _and say it had something to do with Jamie talking about Miles or Flora._

Beca is so surprised she almost forgets to be angry, and wonders if Dani really is hanging around the house as a ghost.

_You have to understand that Jamie and I loved those kids like they were our own.  
I don’t know if you’ve gotten to know the full story yet, but I’m sure you know that Jamie doesn’t see  
them anymore. In fact, they don’t even know she exists. They’ve forgotten who she is._

_Like me, and like them, and like the people from her own childhood, Jamie preserves those who  
aren’t with her in stories. And she passes them on in those around her. I can’t count the number of times  
I’ve said something, and she’s gone ‘That reminds me of XYZ,’, XYZ being some random person I don’t know._

_It’s just what she does. It’s how she copes. It’s how she connects. She doesn’t want the people  
she loves to be forgotten, even if they have already forgotten _ _her_ _, or they aren’t alive anymore._

_That doesn’t make you feel any less sad or angry or frustrated, I’m sure, but I want you to understand  
where she’s coming from. And I hope you can realize that it isn’t anything you did or didn’t do._

_Jamie doesn’t like to stew in bad thoughts for long, so I’m guessing she’ll be coming to  
find you now, if she hasn’t already. Remember she loves you. Remember that I love you.  
And hopefully, remember that you love her too._

_Love, Dani_

Right on time, there’s a knock on the door, timid at first, and then more solid. “Beca?”

“Come in,” Beca says, not even looking up from where she’s curled up on her bed.

She can hear the door creak open, and hear Jamie sigh, and it’s all she can do not to burst into tears when she hears the tremor in Jamie’s voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” she trails off. “I want to explain, okay?”

“She already did,” Beca says, waving the paper slightly. She allows her gaze to travel up, and doesn’t think she’s ever seen Jamie look so lost. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Oh, love,” Jamie sighs, and Beca feels the mattress dip as she sits next to her. “I never want you to think that I don’t see you. That I don’t appreciate you.”

“I know you do,” Beca says, because she _does_ , “but when you say things about Flora…" she looks around helplessly. "I don’t know how to compete with a ghost.”

“It isn’t a competition,” Jamie says, resting her hand lightly on Beca’s hip. “My love for Flora doesn’t mean I love you any less. It’s not something physical that I only have so much to give.”

“Do you ever wish I was Flora?” Beca asks, flipping onto her back. It’s an honest question, and she finds it doesn’t come from a place of anger, but curiosity.

There’s a crease in Jamie’s eyebrows that Beca longs to smooth away. “Well, do you ever wish I was your birth parents?” she counters.

_Hm._

“I see your point,” Beca mumbles.

Jamie chuckles slightly, breaths still shaky, and laces their fingers together. “I talk about the people I’ve lost so I can share them with you, Beca, not to compare you. I’m sorry if it ever came across that way.”

“In your defense, I’m probably just a little sensitive to it,” Beca says, shrugging as best she can from her position. “Emotional baggage and all that.”

“You and me both,” Jamie laughs, squeezing her hand gently. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, exhaling steadily. She squeezes Jamie’s hand back. “So, tell me about them. What’s Dani like?”

She asks this at least once a month, and the answer is always the same as it was that first day, but it never gets old. The smile that breaks out across Jamie’s face matches her words perfectly when her eyes light up and she says, “Like sunshine.”

**—**

_Dear Baby,_

_Senior year!! By now I assume I can swear in these things because holy shit!!_

_The fact that you’re not even born yet, as I’m writing this, and I already feel so much pride  
for you is maybe a bit weird, but I really am proud of you. I know that, based on how Jamie  
and I talked about we wanted to grow our family, that you’ve probably been through a lot.  
And yet you’re here. You’re here, and you should be proud too._

_Short letter today because I know you’re probably eager to get to school,  
but remember: you have so much ahead of you. This is just the beginning.  
And we’ll be with you every step of the way._

_Love, Dani_

**—**

Despite the stress and rigor of applying to colleges, Beca actually enjoys senior year a lot more than she imagined she might.

The idea of senior year in itself was always a source of anxiety and stress over the years, namely because she thought Jamie would kick her out, but the security she feels at home that she never thought she would allows her to enjoy herself.

Unlike some of her friends, Jamie doesn’t pressure her to take any classes she doesn’t want to, so she’s fairly interested in most of them, and they’re all reasonable difficulties. She doesn’t even mind going to school most days, and while it shakes her to her core, she actually likes it sometimes.

A month in, she’s picked up a routine that works well.

Jamie still wakes up with her every morning, even though she doesn’t need to drive her to school anymore, and eats breakfast with her while they look at the puzzles in the newspaper. Then, she’s either given a packed lunch or money for the lunch line, and she’s out the door before eight.

She makes sure to leave early enough so the drive to school is calm and quiet, and Beca picks Emily up every morning except Thursdays when she has theater club before school. Emily has coffee for her most days to repay her for gas, and she slides into the parking lot with twenty minutes before the first bell.

She never really thought of herself as a social person, but she soon comes to realize that she actually doesn’t mind people if they’re decent. Not to mention, having a best friend who happens to be a social butterfly forces her to talk to more than one person.

So, she drinks her coffee on the senior quad, and listens to Emily chatter away with her — well, _their_ — friends, and then heads off to class.

After school, she drives straight to the music store, and works the closing shift until seven. The job, by now, has become familiar and comforting, and the nature of the store allows for her to do whatever she wants.

If she’s feeling particularly peppy that day, she’ll take a customer service track and go around talking to people about what guitar to buy, or what level sheet music they should get. If she’s tired, she’ll run the cash register so she can sit on the stools behind the counter. If she doesn’t want to talk to _anybody_ , she’ll run inventory in the back.

On this particular day, she’s tired.

Jesse, the saint that he has turned out to be, brings her coffee when he runs to the shop across the street on his ten, and she’s been given the all clear to sit at the counter and ring people up all afternoon.

She’s so preoccupied with examining what it is about her coffee today that tastes different that she doesn’t even notice the customer approaching. She’s staring at the generic labels on the cold drink sleeve as if it’ll tell her some new information this time, and barely registers the merchandise being deposited in front of her. She doesn’t even lift her head until she hears a throat clear.

“Oh,” she says with as much composure as she can. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Luckily, the customer doesn’t look mad, just amused. It probably helps that she seems to be about Beca’s age. She gestures towards the counter.

“Guitar picks,” Beca says, scanning them one at a time. They’re wooden, nice, and one of them is a pale blue that matches the customer’s eyes. Not that Beca notices or anything.

“Not for me,” the customer says, smiling a little. “They’re a Christmas present for my best friend. She’s always wanted to learn.”

“It’s September,” Beca deadpans.

“I like to be prepared,” the customer says.

“I’m Beca,” she says, even though she’s never introduced herself to another customer before.

She resists the urge to cover her hands with her face and scream when the customer points to her name tag and says, “I know.” She tilts her head to the side slightly, and then offers, “I’m Chloe.”

Beca watches, wordlessly, as Chloe slides exact change across the counter, and then waves goodbye. All in all, it isn’t the best social experience she’s ever had, but decidedly also not the worst.

And whether she actually starts coming in more frequently, or Beca just starts noticing her, Chloe becomes somewhat of a regular.

_Nah_ , Beca decides. _This is a new thing. I would have noticed her before._

“I think I might want to learn to play guitar,” Chloe’s saying, letting her fingers trace along the decorative trimming of the instrument in front of her. “Would you teach me?”

“How do you know I play guitar?” Beca asks. Once again a slave to humiliation, and victim of the name tag she personally chose, Chloe points to where, under her name it reads, _I play guitar!_ “Oh.”

“So?” Chloe asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.

“I’m not really a teacher,” Beca says. “I took some classes when I was, like, eight, but I’m mostly self-taught.” Chloe’s face falls. “But I could if you want?”

“I think you’ll be a really good teacher,” Chloe says, and Beca doesn’t know why on Earth she would think that, but she shrugs.

“Sure. Well, I’m here most days,” Beca says, gesturing around at the store. “Every day, really. But on Saturdays I have an hour and a half lunch between my two shifts, so you could come by then?”

“Isn’t that your break time?” Chloe frowns.

“As long as I can sit and eat, it’s not a problem,” Beca says, squirming under Chloe’s gaze.

Her face brightens. “Alright, that’s perfect.” She reaches out to touch Beca’s forearm lightly. “Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

Beca comes to learn that Chloe is seventeen, just like her, and is a senior at the preppy private school. She’s initially surprised, but then realizes then that on the weekdays, Chloe always _does_ wear a uniform, and Beca decides she shouldn’t pursue being a detective.

She also has several epiphanies that can be summed up into three items.

First, Chloe is incredibly affectionate, and for a touch-starved human like herself, this is both a blessing and a curse.

Second, Chloe is maybe the most positive person she has ever met, and even when the first couple sessions reap zero progress because she hasn’t built up the hand strength, flexibility, or calluses yet, she literally does not stop smiling.

Third, Beca is probably gay.

“I met someone,” Beca says. She pauses, fork halfway to her lips. “I mean, a friend. Or, not, but also, yes, a friend. Because what else would she be, right?” The realization that she’s actually blushing just makes her flush even more, so she hurries on with, “Her name is Chloe.”

“Oh?” Jamie eyes the pink tint in her cheeks with amusement, but spares Beca the horror of bringing attention to it. “What’s she like?”

For all the time she’s spent thinking about her, Beca is surprisingly speechless. She struggles through a bunch of adjectives that just don’t do Chloe justice, and then recalling the way Jamie had described Dani, she sighs. “Like sunshine.”

**Author's Note:**

> yep, that was 11k words of world building :|
> 
> quinnfebrey on tumblr, come chat!


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